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Lawrence Block, Small Town

Der letzte Block ist schon wieder etwas länger her und da kam mir dieses Buch, in dem Block 'das Jahr danach', d.h. New York 2002, verarbeitet gerade recht. Die Story in der über ein Dutzend Handlungsstränge und Charaktere ineinander verwoben werden, liest sich unglaublich spannend und bei allem Zynismus sehr bewegend.

One of the questions writers got asked was for whom they wrote their books. The answer he usually gave was that he wrote for himself, and it sounded up to here with artistic integrity, but he'd never been entirely happy with it because it wasn't altogether true. If it was just for himself, why bother writing it down? Why not work it all out in his mind and leave it at that? And, if he really was writing for himself, he'd have to say he was a failure at it. Because how often did he sit down with an old book of his own and read the damn thing?
No, there was someone he wrote for, but unfortunately it was a person who couldn't exist. He wrote for the reader he himself would be if he didn't happen to have written the book in the first place. He wrote for someone who would understand at once everything he did or tried to do, who would always know what he meant, and who would be intellectually and emotionally in tune with every word.
.
God damn them anyway, the sons of bitches.
If he could just do something about them ...
But he couldn't, of course, and neither could anyone else. They were safely dead, gone to spend eternity with seventy virgins, and maybe that was punishment enough. He tried to imagine a Catholic equivalent, where St. Peter handed good little boys the keys to a Carmelite nunnery. Here you are, sonny boy. Enjoy yourself. Just be careful they don't smack you with a ruler.

(Lawrence Block, Small World, 2003)